Deadman - Nightwing: Double Indemnity
by Jon Repesh
Summary: A sinister secret threatens the foundation of Haly's Circus and these two diverse personalities.


Living as a dead man is the ultimate irony, the cruelest joke. For one Boston Brand, there was no departing these earthly confines once his body had turned to dust, all in the service of perpetual penance. His spirit has been remanded by the Hindu goddess Rama Kushna to atone for his sins. He has lived a profligate life and payment is due. Why he was chosen as a means of salvation haunts his very thoughts, with the big picture yet revealed. Prospects are grim for a heavenly future, if one believes in those things. Then there's the matter of his murder. A man with a hook was involved, left hand or right remains unclear. Answers are needed. Some may be found nearby, while others sought in the hidden city of Nanda Parbat in the far reaches of Tibet. If Deadman's search for eternal peace is to find result, he has distance to travel. His twofold quest has just begun.

Alas other concerns command his attention. He is once again drawn toward an uncertain course, this time Gotham City and Haly's Circus, two names closely linked due to one intrepid individual. Haly's was home to the Flying Graysons, a family high wire act felled by tragic circumstances, a fate Deadman can eternally relate. The parents of Dick Grayson, former Boy Wonder and present Nightwing, electrified there until their untimely deaths. Why Deadman is bound remains to unfold, though tribulation usually ensues. Young Grayson is also back. What started as a journey of rediscovery has become entangled, governing not only his daytime notice but nocturnal as well. While polar opposites, the two did share the same vocation with equally dreadful results. The Graysons' killer was uncovered. Deadman's was not. Is this the connection and cause for summoning. He has learned his ethereal odyssey weaves in mysterious ways. Whether another case of reclamation or redemption, hazard he must. However this time personal import might arise. May hope prevail.

There are certain ventures from yesteryear that have struggled in recent times. Circuses bear that unenviable distinction. Haly's is no exception. They require vast funds to operate, thus requiring vast crowds to attend, an untenable situation for an enterprise aimed at children. Today's youth prefer tech toys to the big top. Haly's deftly remains afloat, though barely. They have utilized shrewd planning with a loyal staff willing to work for modest wages to stay solvent, thus keeping the creditors at bay. Their two week engagement in Gotham is considered critical however, though even a strong turnout may not suffice. Dick Grayson is aware, that being one reason for his return, a return tinged with sadness. He has thought greatly about offering support. His relationship to Bruce Wayne has left him with considerable means, but the decision is not straightforward. Rumors abound of internal strife, with some favoring closure. While trying news indeed, it's merely the tip of the iceberg. A sinister secret lurks capable of destroying the entire circus. For all involved, dark days loom ominously on the horizon.

Gotham City is a vast, grim, urban nightmare, a backdrop keenly befitting a Deadman. His non-corporeal status and parallel demeanor do not complement sunlit environs, nor do the missions he partakes. The sorry souls he encounters are routinely withstanding some form of existential crisis, with Brand yet comprehending his proposed role. For one incapable of conducting his own affairs with decorum, merely abiding another's torment has provided little insight. The private thoughts of an individual are no simple matter. Their minds dance to a different doctrine borne of their unique character and personal experiences, with no one able to affect change. For Deadman, the moment of entry is like plunging into an abyss. The initial jolt is both frightening and enlightening. It's distinctly eerie invading someone's head, a body snatching akin to internal voyeurism. The takeover is immediate, with the poor fools never knowing what hit them. Deadman too endures confusion, though brief. For one previously averse to education, he could write a thesis on cognitive functions. Who needs college credits when you can leap from mind to mind. Forget the physical facts of neurons and synapses. It's nature and nurture and sensory perception. Depending on whose body he hijacks, he may instantly become fluent in another language or acquire the skills of a scratch golfer, a direct correlation of their mental and muscle memory. Despite these different perspectives, he's learned how to function within the parameters of the host body, even those of the opposite sex. While the circumstances and demands vary, the only question left is the identity of the ill fated victim this go round. The answer to that query is mere moments away.

It's not easy returning to the site of your childhood, even one as itinerant as a circus. What's that saying? You can never go home again. Can Dick relate. Under the best of conditions it's taxing, but whenever death enters the equation, emotions heighten. Add in the slow demise of the circus and the erstwhile Boy Wonder experiences considerable wondering indeed. Naturally this is all part of adulthood, facing unpleasant situations. Even his long awaited reunion with boyhood sweetheart Raya Vestri has him aquiver. His hormones flare at just the thought of her. Alas time waits for no man, for there by the grace of god stands she.

"**Raya?"**

"Hi Dick. It's been a long time."

"**It sure has. Look at you. You're gorgeous."**

"You always were the charmer, even as a boy. And now you're all grown up, a man. You must have to fight them off."

"**Now who's the charmer."**

"We've missed you."

"**I've missed you, greatly, thought about you often. How you were, how the circus was doing…"**

"And yet you stayed away."

"**I've….been busy."**

"Too busy to see your old friends….your old family?"

"**It's not that simple. There are things you're unaware of, complex…..plus the pain runs deep."**

"I know it does, and I understand, but that's what friends are for."

"**How is everything?"**

"Not good. We've had tough times before, but this is different. There are things _you're _unaware of."

"**I've heard rumors, rumors of trouble within."**

"I don't know everything myself. Something is going on. The circus is divided. We've always been tight before, but people have changed. If it's time to close shop, I can accept that, but not like this."

"**I want to help anyway I can."**

"Dick, you can't just waltz back here after all this time, flash your money, and play the hero. Despite your intentions, some will resent it….maybe even me."

"**I don't mean to imply the circus can't handle its own problems. I just want to help. And if my resources can do that, so be it. I can't think of a better way to use them."**

"We'll see. I'll talk to them, gradually. Right now I have to prepare for tomorrow's opening. You will be there….?"

"**I wouldn't miss it for the world."**

"Good….and thanks. It really is great seeing you."

"**It almost feels like we're kids again."**

"If only. Until tomorrow."

For Deadman, the time is now. The tingling sensations decree contact is imminent, a macabre blind date unheard of in the annals of relationships. He can already see the intended victim, an agitated man finalizing tent construction. His looks are unfamiliar. No real surprise. He has yet to encounter anyone he knew in his previous life. How he longed for the possibility. What's this guy's story, and what's his sorrow? We'll soon find out. Here we go. Magic Mountain baby. Ugh…damn, I hate this part, the disorientation. It takes a few seconds. Where was I? Oh yeah, the circus. It's becoming clearer now. Yes, things are becoming quite clear. I'm in the body of a man at Haly's Circus. Thoughts are flooding in, many thoughts, some intense and others trivial. It's the former that concern me. I need to wade through the crap to get to the core, who he is and why I'm here. I'm seeing a pattern now, constant, fixated. Thoughts about the circus. About staying in business. About the competition, especially the competition. About their performers. About one particular performer. Come on, don't wander. Stay focused. Yes, it's back, now where were we? Thoughts about a performer from another circus. From the past. An acrobat in a costume. A trapeze performer. A trapeze performer going by the name of…..Deadman. Deadman! My god. This man knows who murdered me.

In retrospect, Dick's reunion with Raya went well. The trepidation subsided once initial contact was made, initial eye contact especially, and while parts of the conversation conveyed regret, it was mostly caring. One key objective went unrealized however. He did not uncover anything new on the circus's plight. Indeed the lack of information was keenly dismaying, including Raya's vagueness. Her supervisory position would make her privy to all manner of facts and hearsay. It pains him to consider she was not completely forthcoming with her comments. One thing made perfectly clear was his return is deemed unwelcome by some, which means Dick Grayson's nascent detective role in this mystery has run aground. Fortunately he has other options, one being his evening persona Nightwing. Evening's when the guarded facades vanish and the snakes slither out anyway, plus he can exert a bit more influence. While his interrogation technique is not as intimidating as Batman's, he has discovered just his vigilante status provides an edge. Albeit anchored to heartbreaking memories, he could embark under the pretense of probing new extortion charges. He's still familiar with a few employees who might provide leads. With the right form of persuasion….

It takes a few moments for Deadman to collect his thoughts, odd since they now coincide with the body he inhabits. This is where the lines blur, two becomes one, dichotomy becomes synchronicity. Synchronicity suggests harmony however, a dubious inference far from accurate. How does one maintain self when you're part of another? At this point he's unsure what he's experienced. Are his sensory perceptions his own or that of the host? No acid trip could possibly produce this synthesis of psychotic sensations. What he does know is this man is obsessed with him, Deadman, the once lively but now lifeless circus performer. Sequential images of him being shot streamed by as if broadcast from a kaleidoscope. The only way he could retain that tableau is if he observed it. Brand knows no camera footage exists of that night. Indeed he just witnessed his own murder, a surreal Zapruder film screened within a man's mind. One relevant observation was the angle of the picture. Considering what he knew about the location of the killer, and this man couldn't possibly have pulled the trigger. But he was there! Did he sanction the hit? Did he want to see the job done first hand? And what of the man with the hook? Alas the images recede once a yawn occurs. He's likely been up since sunrise obliging sleep, thus precluding further findings. Unless his slumbering dreams offer insight into his waking nightmares, Deadman will have to wait before exploring anew.

It's late evening and most of the crew has long retired, with the big day pending tomorrow. There's nothing like opening night, as a young Dick Grayson can attest. The joy of anticipation, the thrill of risk, all enhanced by familial love. The bond between them was magical. Despite the fate befallen his parents, he still has fond memories of those halcyon days. However now a more mature Dick Grayson, in the guise of Nightwing, has less peaceful thoughts abounding. Some hidden mystery requires his services, a mystery shrouded in the past. Presently the circus is serene. While calm on the surface, a ghostly presence pervades, portending untold peril. In his gallant travels, he has beheld much this world has to offer, from the majestic to the mundane, the incredible to the unimaginable. It's all part and parcel of his chosen path. He's been trained by the best with the subsequent expectations and responsibilities that go with it, responsibilities he accepts proudly. It's now time to put that training to the test. A quick perusal of the main tent reveals few people around, mostly security staff. Just as he's about to reposition, one man commands notice by his very presence. Though seen from afar, he's clearly recognized, immediately conjuring another incident, one marked by death. This is Jonny Flame, a freelance gun for hire available to anyone at the right price. Despite the predicament presented, Nightwing has found his break. Unfortunately it comes with a corresponding escalation of danger.

"**Flame!"**

"Well well, a real live vigilante. What do you want, hero?"

"**What's a punk like you doing here?"**

"If you must know, I'm conducting business, not that it's any of your concern."

"**What kind of business could you have at a circus?"**

"You'd be surprised. By the way, just to inform you, there are no outstanding warrants for my arrest."

"**You haven't answered my question."**

"In this case I'm more of a messenger. You see, someone hasn't done what they're supposed to, and someone else isn't happy about that. Sometimes people just need a friendly reminder."

"**I don't like the sound of that."**

"It's the direct approach. That way there's no misunderstanding."

"**Of course you always conduct your business at night."**

"Mostly. I've never been much of a morning person, I'm sure you relate. Besides, you meet a better class of people at night, don't you think?"

"**Who you working for these days?"**

"That will have to remain secret, but trust me. We have the best interests of the circus in mind."

"**I'll decide what…"**

"_What's going on?"_

"Saved by the lady in red. I told you you'd be surprised."

"**Ms. Vestri, we're you expecting him?"**

"_Uh yes. You're Nightwing, aren't you? I'm not sure how you know my name or why you're here, but this is a private matter, so unless one of us is under arrest, please leave." _

"Hero, if you could see the look on your face."

"**Flame, let's make sure there is no misunderstanding between us. I'll be keeping an eye on you. As for you Ms. Vestri, be careful of the company you keep. You have no idea who you're dealing with "**

"_I'm afraid I do. Good night."_

Deadman can only wait while his host sleeps. For a spirit now beset with eternal time, patience is not a virtue. Plus the anticipation alone is driving him batty. How fitting an analogy in Gotham City. Is this another joke on Kushna's part, compelling him to link with his killer's colleague? How is this synergy of sinners supposed to balance the cosmic scales. Salvation seemingly has long since left the building. If punishment's the aim, why not send him packing down the infernal highway. Purgatory can't possibly be this bad. He has however put his free time to good use. His host now has a name, Frank Sands, courtesy of his driver's license. Alas the name matches the face. They're both unknown. The whys and wherefores continue to confound, exasperating Deadman endlessly. While never the sharpest student when alive, he displayed a natural aptitude for philosophy, often engaging in deep reflection. Kismet, providence, destiny, fate; what goes around, comes around. Hardly profound, but it makes its point. Of course he never surmised karma constituted such an interminable kick in the groin. He's mightily discovered payback's a bitch, and its name is Rama Kushna.

Nightwing's still recovering from the latest development, Raya Vestri associating with a known gangster. It's been a rough day all the way around. In the span of hours, she has instructed both Dick and Nightwing, in so many words, to politely butt out. When one returns home to their formative youth, they don't expect to be regarded as an intruder, unless that too is inherent in Wolfe's cautionary quote. Her intent is awash in shades of gray, a not uncommon palette in tales of woe, and while certainly no innocent bystander, Flame is more a symptom than the cause of the circus's ills. The relationship they share appears mutually beneficial, with little coercion involved, little initially of course. The problem may still be internal. He knows most of the employees, which doesn't absolve anyone, but it's the others who comprise the unknown variable. One man in particular stands out, a former grifter with a rap sheet pages long, whose perfidious past rings raucous warning bells. His name is Frank Sands.

The big day has arrived, with all the pomp and pageantry one would expect from opening night in Gotham City. The significance of the occasion cannot be overlooked. Not only livelihoods are at stake, but actual lives as well. The cast of characters, buoyed by game faces comprised of flesh and oil, are steadily preparing. As for Deadman, the night of great unrest is over, merely to be rekindled by further delay. His nefarious host has been in conference since sunrise, his mind too preoccupied with forthcoming events to ponder the desired thoughts. Brand's unease is palpable, embodied in a fear of time running short, a notion of one last chance. He senses an acute anxiety in Sands, a tension not borne from circus responsibilities. It runs deeper, a dread extending clear to the bone. He has felt it before in others once a decision's been made, one with little recourse. Or perhaps the opposite, when the realization hits that all options have elapsed, and with them whatever hope remained. The answers this man holds need to be revealed tonight, or there may be no other opportunity.

Dick sadly realized there was little point conferring with Raya again. Whatever malaise infects the circus, her mind is made. She will abide no interference from either childhood friend or obtrusive hero. An impenetrable barrier was established long before his return, starkly reflecting the depth of the dilemma. Initial preemptive measures were unsuccessful, though hardly deterring his efforts. If his mentor taught him anything, it's to proceed forthright and persevere. That his efforts will continue is certain, the only question left is which of his two personas will attend tonight's show. An ominous feeling precludes any real choice. The stage is set, the players cast. It's now merely how the cards play out, and may fortune favor the bold.

The turnstiles are open. The crowd is arriving. A large turnout is assured. Haly's hasn't performed in Gotham in a decade, when they were still withstanding the stigma of the Grayson deaths. Indeed the entire circus suffered greatly from the tragedy, and in many ways never recovered. It's been a long road back and one much welcomed judging by ticket sales, an even greater feat considering the lack of a star attraction. The irony's not lost on Deadman. In his prime he alone could draw the crowds, providing the thrills and chills they paid good money to witness. The reason for his murder still eludes him. Was it as simple as eliminating the competition? Strictly business, nothing personal? Was it just about money, and if so, how much? It's not everyone who learns their life's worth in monetary terms. How much did you pay to have me killed, Frank Sands? I want to know. Speaking of which, he's finally alone, with no one happier than Deadman. Not surprisingly images start to reappear in his mind. Unfortunately they don't involve Brand. Some other man is the focus, a man unknown. Anxious anticipation builds, heralding something imminent. Sands seems set for a confrontation, with an irate demeanor belying his modest stature. Despite a gruff exterior, he's not a physical man, more likely hiring another to do his dirty work, a direct correlation to what transpired those many years ago. At that instant he looks at his watch, scowls, and starts a determined walk toward a dark alcove spurred by even darker intent. The moment is here.

Nightwing has set up shop high above the rafters, a vista he's enjoyed often. For Dick, it's wondrous being back under the big top, even under adverse circumstances. Looking down provides a splendid sight. How he'd love to just relax and savor the moment. The tent is full. Haly's return has been met with profound interest. Plus there's nothing like the feeling of freedom this viewpoint bestows, though tonight it serves a more functional purpose. Reflection can wait. More pressing matters abound. His intuition tells him disaster is looming, a threat so severe it may topple the circus once again. One man figures prominently. Jonny Flame's appearance was no happenstance. Where there's smoke, there's fire. A more apt analogy could not apply. And if that's the plan, make it now. As if on cue, a man is seen briskly striding toward a back corridor, none other than Flame himself. The moment is here.

In a side room, like two raging bulls, Flame and Sands converge. They both convey intense emotion simply by the look in their eyes. This meeting bears all the hallmarks of extreme urgency. Meanwhile a spectral spectator is keenly hovering above.

"**You've been avoiding me."**

"The circus takes all my time, you know that. What do your bosses want? I've done everything they've asked."

"**The circus shouldn't even be here. What the hell are they doing in Gotham City?!"**

"What did you expect me to do, kill again. I'm still haunted by that. I could swear I feel the ghost of that bastard everywhere I go. You know Vestri. There's no reasoning with her, and threats don't work. The last thing your people want is the police investigating this entire setup."

"**They'll decide what they want. You were to follow orders. You think I like being here. That damn Nightwing already read me the riot act. The only thing saving your ass is that I'd take the rap."**

"I'm tired of this whole thing. I never wanted to get in this deep. If I didn't know that drifter with the hook…."

"**You're in and you're staying in. The plan is the same. We want this circus shut down. Do you understand?!"**

"_Tell me more, Flame. Tell me why you want this circus shut down."_

"**You set me up!"**

"I had no idea he was here, now just keep quiet."

"**Stand back, hero, or I'll put a bullet through his head."**

"_Drop the gun and let him go. This ends now."_

"**The hell it does."**

At that moment Flame starts running for the nearest exit, and while doing so, fires two deliberate shots at a propane tank. A quick explosion bursts out, felling Sands and providing the means for his escape. Nightwing has no choice but to attend to the fallen man. Alas it's too late. He's gone. Alerted by the noise, a security guard enters the room, only to be immediately overtaken by Deadman's spirit. 

"No!"

"**What?!"**

"Why did you have to get involved? Why did you have to get involved?"

"**Are you okay?"**

"I was so damn close! Why?"

"**What's going on here? Who are you?"**

"This was my last chance."

"**Who are you?"**

"My name is Boston Brand. Most people knew me as…..Deadman."

"**I don't know what's going on buddy, but this isn't funny."**

"I told you. I am the spirit of Boston Brand."

"**You expect me to believe this?"**

"I was a trapeze artist, just like you. Yes, I know who you are….Dick Grayson."

"**The name sounds familiar. I've heard of you. You were killed while performing, shot. They never found the killer."**

"This man knew who murdered me. He was there. Now whatever he knew is...gone."

"**How do you still….exist, in another person's body?"**

"I don't know. My spirit has been confined to this plane for some grand purpose, to atone. I exist in a void, drifting, trapped. This would have provided me with some peace, some closure."

"**I've seen many things, but this is difficult to grasp."**

"I'm paying penance, for an existence deemed unworthy."

"**I'm sorry. It must be difficult…..."**

"That is why I needed this, to have something to hold on to, to allow me to continue in whatever lies ahead. Now I'm back to nothing."

"**Is there anything I can do?"**

"Live a righteous life."

Once again untethered, Boston Brand is free to roam the ether, still yearning for answers. He has found the afterlife wanting, void of magnificence, more meaningless than when alive. Is that the point, that there is none. We search for direction through philosophy and religion, at times becoming willful sheep of ecumenical creed, merely to avoid miasma of the soul. It almost makes a deal with the devil sound soothing in its release from obligation and uncertainty. Perhaps Rama Kushna, with all her praises and censures, is yet another pretender tendering a pig in a poke. We're all just given one shot at this game called life, and if we drop the ball, we're toast. Nowhere does it say life is fair. There's no road map or instruction booklet detailing how we should comport ourselves. It's all up to the gray matter and a thing called conscience. Of course in life's balance sheet, the debits and credits rarely even out. Whether you're spiritually rich or morally bankrupt, it's all over once the reaper comes calling. Heaven, hell, they're just man made concepts designed to appease the unwashed masses during their brief mortal sojourn. While not devout by any means, Deadman desires a final resting place, even one comprised of absolute nothingness, the bliss abyss. After all, that's how we started. Regardless of metaphysical musings, one thing remains inviolate. He's being beckoned anew. Oh well, no rest for the weary.


End file.
